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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667818">everything that rises must converge</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/drawlight'>drawlight (snagov)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Versailles - Freeform, zine: flaming like anything</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:16:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/drawlight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wait for me, Aziraphale had said. In the education room.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>everything that rises must converge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Versailles, France<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>1788</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We lie with words sometimes, telling each other comfortable fictions, little blankets of lies and untruths like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is one-hundred-percent-cranberry-juice</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, look, I've fallen into love</span>
  </em>
  <span>; the thing is that no one ever falls unknowingly (the thing is that Tristan drank from the cup with open eyes). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits. The room is dark and echoing. Crowley leans against the wall. Pauses, reconsiders. Collects his bones and leans another way.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait for me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In the education room. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley hesitates. He doesn't know if he should wait on his knees or where he should put his hands. He fusses with his hair. His dick is furious in his tights. Red already, red and crying out. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How long? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He doesn't know how long he'll need to wait. It doesn't matter. His blood races at being told, at the whisper against his ear, warm breath across his cheek. His own cock doesn't matter, no. What matters is Aziraphale. His palms sweat at the look of the heavy table, thick and oak wood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe you'll want to be laid out across it, laid out like a banquet, like a corpse for a shroud. You'll want to be opened up slowly, you'll tell me how and where to go. I'll fuck you just the way you like, angel. Use me, just fucking use me. I don't care how you touch me. Tell me where to go and when, take my cock out of my pants whenever you like, wherever you like. I'm your shovel, your pitchfork, your knife. A tool to be used. Tell me when to fuck you and I'll bury myself in you, bring you off on my dick and my hand wrapped around you. (I won't even come if you don't tell me to. Use me as you please, do anything you want. I only come when you call.) </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Aziraphale will want his mouth. Crowley looks at the floor, the polished tiles. No dust will get on his knees, show against the black fabric. He'll drop to his knees, pull Aziraphale out. Press his forehead against the valley of hip and thigh, worshipping the hills and dales of this steel-soft body. He'll take Aziraphale in, tongue pressed against the underside, pulling him down deep into his throat. Knocking softly against the urge to choke, one hand wrapped tight around the root of him. His sharp nose against Aziraphale's belly, the dust of pale curls on him, one tense thigh under his other hand. He'll ground himself on Aziraphale, sucking him off exactly as he should. As he's meant to. As he's been told. (Aziraphale will keep his hands knotted in Crowley's devil-red hair, pulling at him like the reins of a horse. Moving his jaw like a carriage-driver. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes yes yes please more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley buries a shudder, closing his eyes. He leans against the wall, here in this empty room, as starved as kindling for the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How does it go? Submission? (Listen now, hear the sound of footsteps down the long hall. The click of measured heels across the stone floor. Any moment now.) Strange thing, submission. Crowley's breath in his throat, the curl of heat up his spine. In the beginning, somewhere in Wessex, the start of an Arrangement, he had felt the lick of embarrassment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't ask for that. Don't say you want that. It's weird. Don't do that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What do you need?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale had asked then, hands in Crowley's hair, guiding him down and in. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"I want -"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No, you've told me what you want. There's something else, isn't there?" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale had run a hand down his face, over his nose, had kissed his throat. Warm again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Tell me what you need. I'll give it to you. Anything." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Take me. Take from me. Let me be yours, keep me near you so that you can have me whenever you like. Tell me what to do. Tell me how. Don't let me think about it, don't let me overthink it. Shut that part of my brain up by telling me where to go and when, push me on my knees. My back. Tell me to fuck you for hours. (Don't let me come.) Let me take care of you and tell me how you want it. I don't want to matter unless you tell me to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Tell me I'm beautiful. Tell me I'm clever. Tell me I'm yours, that you'll keep me. Tell me I'm worth this mess. Don't let me look away from how you say these things. Hold me still. Make me take it, those words. Tell me you love me and don't give me permission to look away.) </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Heels on the tile. The door opens. A figure in the dark, crossing the shadows. The little light from the hallway gleams on the pale blue silk of his jacket. Catches on the cream of his tights. Crowley watches his eyes through the mask, river-blue set within this mask of ivory and gold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've done so well, waiting for me, haven't you?" Aziraphale whispers, moving in near Crowley's neck, breathing him in deeply. Crowley is intensely aware of the edges of himself. Aware of the scent of himself, the prickle of sweat down his back. His impossibly hard cock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nods. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I tried. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you know why we're here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have an i</span>
  <em>
    <span>dea,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Crowley says, arching his dark brows. He's aiming for wry but his words sound dusty in his own throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You like this, being told when and where. You like when I just take from you. I could have you here for hours. No one would know. See that table?" Aziraphale points to the heavy oak table. "I could lie down on it and have you fuck me for days, darling." His mouth up against Crowley's ear, damp and heated. His hand drifting down to cup Crowley's furious cock. Crowley bites back a whine, stays perfectly still. (He has been trained. He knows what to do.) "I wouldn't let you come. Not once. I'll have you fuck me and I'll come twenty times perhaps. Maybe thirty. Use you just the way you like. Just for me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Crowley does moan. (Some things can't be helped.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"However," Aziraphale says, pulling away. "I want to do something else."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anything," Crowley hisses, closing his eyes. He doesn't know what Aziraphale has in mind but it doesn't matter. Aziraphale has licked up and down the space of himself, knows the furthest reaches of his body, every boundary and edge of him. Aziraphale, who has pulled them back from Crowley's edges so many times, giving the safeword when Crowley stubbornly refuses. Crowley has placed his trust in Aziraphale's gentle curator's hands and Aziraphale has set that trust on a pedestal, guarded with care. It's Aziraphale, Crowley knows. So it will be good. (Wonderful. Delirious. Incredible. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're so good. So perfect. Such a gorgeous creature. You're so generous to me and thoughtful, always taking care of me. Putting me first. I want to reward you." Aziraphale presses his palm against the underside of Crowley's dick, trapped there in his clothing, aching upward. Crowley sucks in a breath, closes his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you -" Crowley's voice shakes like a screen door in the wind. "What are you going to do?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anything I like to you," Aziraphale hums, his tongue dipping into the curl of Crowley's ear. Crowley shivers. "And you'll take it, won't you, darling?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley hisses. Nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Safeword?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aster."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Against the wall. Take yourself out for me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against the wall. This white plaster wall. Crowley's hands shake, he's half-blind with want. His icepick fingers draw himself out. He presses his shovel-shoulders into the crown molding and the plaster too, trying to dig himself a grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale kisses him. Wet and deep, this rockpool of his mouth. Crowley pushes blindly into it, into that softness, parted lips and tongue like a red carpet. Aziraphale is a familiar taste, a memorized taste. He opens Crowley's own mouth, kissing him like opening a door after a long journey. Like setting his keys down, taking his coat off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale kisses Crowley like he's coming home.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Touch me. Please, fuck. Let me touch you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hold still," Aziraphale murmurs, kneeling now before Crowley. Crowley's spine rattles like a snake. He nudges Crowley's legs apart with his own knees, there like a supplicant. The way the moonlight comes through the windows catches on his pale hair, the shine of his clothing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look like you're glowing, I fucking swear. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Strong hands run up his calves, his thighs, come to rest in the center of his hips. Not quite touching. Not yet. They pull his thighs further apart. Leave him open and exposed. (Left on the side of a cliff, nothing but eagles to touch him and sun too.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing cruel touches him. His dick out and jutting into the air, the rest of him pressed back into a wall. And Aziraphale takes. Or gives. (Crowley doesn't know, he will do anything. Take anything.) His mouth swallowing around, his hand firmly set at the base, kneading a gentle rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley gasps. Aziraphale looks up at him, warning in his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't make a sound. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But he moves again and moves deeper. Those strong hands have been pinning his wrists to the wall but they shift to his hips now, stilling him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't move. </span>
  </em>
  <span>One of Crowley's hands comes up to Aziraphale's hair, settling in the cassock-white curls. Aziraphale keens into it, around Crowley in his mouth. Grit the teeth, lean your head back into the wall. His hips perfectly still, his hand riding on Aziraphale's head, taking the way Aziraphale fucks him with his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the way Aziraphale likes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the way </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span> likes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's the thing about submission. About surrender. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Here I am, throwing myself out there. Catch me, do with me what you will. (Do with me what I want. Don't make me have to say it. Be the words for me. Be the boundaries too. Make me listen. Make me admit what I can't normally. Give me permission to worship you. Tell me when and where, I can't be too much if you've told me. Directed me. I'll be exactly what you want.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He tightens his fist in Aziraphale's hair. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I'm - " (going to explode, going to move from solid to gas in an instant, come for you in sublimation). Aziraphale moves away, pulling off of him. His cock slaps wet and alone against his leg. Crowley digs his teeth into his lip at the loss of feeling, at this interruption. There is an ache of incompleteness between his thighs. An electrical circuit with one part struck out. The power fizzles in him, crackles in him, slammed into stillness. Sparks in his spine. Spatter white. Aziraphale watches him, his breath too warm and not enough, moving against his impossibly hard self. Moving against his choked-off need.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nearly cries out. God, he needs to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come here," Aziraphale says, beckoning toward the table. He snaps his fingers and is on the table, legs left apart and eyebrow raised. He bares himself in a miracled moment, not a stitch to be found. (Nothing to unravel, nothing to catch and tear. Crowley cannot hurt him.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley's mouth is very dry. His dick is very red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come here, you beautiful demon. And make me come."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christ," Crowley shudders. His cock leads the way, red and bright against his dark clothing and the shadows of the room. Aziraphale is covered in that same damnable moonlight, those same distant stars. Crowley watches him shift on the table, his jaw lifting as Crowley draws nearer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're wearing nothing but the stars I made. The ones I hung up there (a very long time ago). I don't know how old that light is, the stuff on your skin, your face, in your eyes. Is it from before I Fell? It could be, you could be wearing the starlight I touched once with angel hands.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale is laid out under him, gasping there, wrapping his hands around Crowley's neck, running over the dark fabric-covered shoulders. "I want you now. Fill me up so I feel it forever. Just stay there, inside me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley finds himself slipping deep into Aziraphale's body. The first push is overwhelming. He holds himself still, staring into Aziraphale's eyes, trying to let the feeling pass, trying to keep his orgasm at bay. He hasn't been told yet. He's not allowed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm yours, whatever you need from me. Take what you want. Use me, please. Tell me to fuck you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves. Over and over and over again, watching the sweat glisten on Aziraphale's neck, down his chest. He dips down, licking it off and tasting the salt of his skin. Slow and easy, letting Aziraphale set the pace, to use him as he wants. Legs around his waist, pulling him in tighter. Magnet seeking magnet, slamming together on a forgotten table in a forgotten room down a dark hall. Somewhere below them, a party glitters prettily on, baring its neck to the rest of France. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, god," Aziraphale whispers, "You feel so good, you are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me. Yes, like that,</span>
  <em>
    <span> please -</span>
  </em>
  <span> " </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley knows how Aziraphale likes it. Knows to miracle oil onto his hands, wrap around Aziraphale's straining, blood-hard cock, work it up and down and just a thumb swiped once or twice over the tip, yes. Aziraphale cries out and digs nails into Crowley's neck, leaving mezzaluna bruises. He comes, yes, and  burns as bright as a supernova. (Crowley has to shade his eyes.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, laid gasping on the table, with half-lidded eyes and an open mouth, Aziraphale pulls him in deeper once again by his pleading legs. "I want you to come." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't." </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need to. I shouldn't. I don't matter, don't worry about me. (Tell me to. Command me, make me feel this.)  </span>
  </em>
  <span>"I can't again. I can't, angel, I can't, I - " He bites the inside of his lip. Blood. It tastes like a gun has been fired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You will." </span>
  </em>
  <span>Aziraphale is laid out under him, spread out upon the table. Under his unholy hands, his infernal touch. A feast to be carved up. (He is careful with his knife, his shatter-hard cock. He is careful where he puts his fanged mouth. Crowley knows he is a punishment, never a reward.) "You will because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to," he says. Crowley watches his mouth. His lips glossy with spit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's me on you. I look good on you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"You're mine, aren't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, yes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, when I want you to come, you're going to come. And darling, that's what I want. Give me this." Aziraphale still has his arms locked around Crowley's neck. He knows what Crowley needs and pulls him down, into an confession of a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you. Come for me." (Yes, Aziraphale knows what Crowley needs. What Aziraphale needs too.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley comes. His eyes slammed shut and his heart skidding across the floor. His heart thrown against his own ribcage, slammed into his own bones over and over and over again. As taut as Artemis' bowstring, plucked too much. He comes and the world is white behind his slam-shuttered eyes and he tries to be good, tries to not moan. (It doesn't matter, Aziraphale is there, his mouth over him, sucking in the sound of Crowley like a starved man given a milkshake, not spilling a drop.) </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me worship you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley had begged. Had waited on his knees in an empty room like an empty church before the service. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me love you. Let me worship you. Let me show you what I mean (I'm shit with words). </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes, shattering apart. The atoms of him finally untied, deep in Aziraphale's body where he belongs.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Amen amen amen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally published in the Flaming Like Anything zine, spring 2020.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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